


Too Many Mistakes to Trade

by Sour_Idealist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, OT3, POV Female Character, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 10:17:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sour_Idealist/pseuds/Sour_Idealist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Jo fucks Dean, it’s with her back against a moldy wall in Massachusetts, her hair full of cobwebs and his mouth hot and salty against hers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Many Mistakes to Trade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DragonNinjaAri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonNinjaAri/gifts).



> For the lovely Ashley, who prompted me "you can't fly these wings, you can't sleep in this box with me." Unfortunately, I failed to Google the source of this prompt until after I'd written the whole thing, and thus, am not sure I produced what she had in mind.
> 
> Nonetheless, here we are. Enjoy!
> 
> **Warning for mentions of suicide and off-screen torture.**

It starts because he stumbles through the door and nearly drops his gun, breathes “Jo?” like she’d never imagined he’d breathed anything in his life. She lowers the muzzle of her gun, nods slowly, licks the trace taste horror from her mouth.

“Dean. Hello.”

The two of them settle themselves back against the moldy wall, kicking old stones and the remains of a bird’s nest out of the way; he tugs a flask from his belt and holds it out to her. “It’s clean,” he says, “I promise. Not half bad, either, at least not for what you can get now.”

She looks at him, his unsteady hands clutching the metal and the way he’s not looking at her, and lets her fingers brush his as she takes the offer and the bottle. The whiskey burns familiar down her throat.

“Sam?” she asks; he shakes his head, shrinking into his jacket like a shell. She hands the whiskey back. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says, takes another pull. “Ellen?”

“Two months ago,” she says, rolls a sheathed knife between her palms. “Somewhere in Oklahoma. I wanted to be the one to put her down, she wouldn’t let me. Did it herself.”

He looks away, knees pulled up to his chest, and shudders, slides the flask back across to her. She shakes her head. “Thanks, but…” She clears her throat. “I promised her. I said I’d keep it together.”

He looks at her, nods and tucks the flask into his coat, slowly brushes her filthy hair behind her shoulder with the backs of two scratch-knuckled fingers. She looks at him, and he all but flinches away.

The burning in her throat is familiar and not at _all_ like whiskey, and she sighs, grabs the front of his shirt and does her best to bruise herself against his lips. Ten minutes later she’s straddling his lap and he’s inside her, burying his face against her throat as her shoulder gets as badly soaked as the inside of her thighs, and she locks her arms around him and grits her teeth and promises: she won't mess this one up. She's going to hang on to him.

 

Three months later, a sweep of the beach – for supplies, usable boats, anything and everything – goes overtime, and Jo rolls a sleeping bag against an upturned cracked canoe and traces patterns in the sand with her finger. She’s just finishing the shape of an _E_ when she hears Dean moan on the far side of the fire.

She turns her head.

There’s no one here but her and him and Castiel, and the tight arch of Dean’s throat catches the glow of the embers, and he’s got one hand twisted in Cas’s hair, one hand trapping Castiel’s fingers against his hip. The tattered edge of his shirt is hiding Castiel’s face from her, but she’s guessing he’s got Dean swallowed down, and his shoulders are shaking, he’s rocking his hips against the sand.

Jo sits up slowly, sleeping bag falling from around her shoulders, and undoes the buttons on her jeans.

She doesn’t dare anything further, clenches her fist against the base of her stomach and watches Dean’s hips jerk up, watches as his lips pull back from his teeth and his fingers clench over Cas’s hand, and she catches her breath –

Cas goes still, and Dean’s thin whine nearly makes her drive her fingers down her panties even as Cas lifts his head – lifts his mouth off of Dean’s cock, shining with spit and swollen red – to stare at her. She swallows and stares back, doesn’t look away until Dean turns and sees her too.

He licks his lips.

“Thought you said she was asleep,” he rasps, jerking his head towards Castiel, but he doesn’t look away from her, and Cas doesn’t say anything. His pupils have practically swallowed his eyes, between the blowjob and the darkness. Dean twitches a shoulder up, defensive. “What, you want to join in?”

It’s bitter, barbed. She swallows, stands and shucks her panties and her jeans in a quick shove of her hands.

His eyes go wider as she pads bare-legged, bare-pussied across the beach, kneels next to him and brushes her hand against Castiel’s shoulder. It’s bare.

“Can I take a turn?” she asks, sliding her hand along Dean’s thigh, glancing between the two of them; Cas nods a second before Dean, looking a lot less surprised. She doesn’t know what to think of that, focuses instead the way Dean’s cock twitches against her tongue, the way Cas’s fingers settle in between her shoulder blades as Dean’s hand cards into her hair. He hasn’t dropped Castiel’s other hand.

“ _Jo,_ ” he hisses as she curls her tongue around him, “Jo, I –” and then he’s coming hot and quick and salty against the back of her throat, spit and semen spilling out the corners of her lips, muscles shaking underneath her, and she pulls back, flattening her palm against the twitching muscles of his stomach. Castiel is watching her, his eyes glittering, and she nods a tiny bit without a thought. The next thing she knows he’s dragged her forwards, his hand between her shoulder blades holding her up as she braces herself against Dean’s chest and Castiel licks at the edge of her mouth, at the sticky streams along her chin. He chases droplet after droplet, and she tilts back and lets her mouth fall open, tastes him tasting her.

Finally he pulls back, and she notices Dean’s fingers nudging at her waist: “Your turn,” he murmurs, bracing his elbows on the sand, dragging her back against him as Castiel slithers down between her thighs. “You know how to eat pussy, Cas?”

(Dean still hasn’t let go of his hand, though their tangled fingers are resting on the sand now, not his hip.)

“I’ve been learning,” Cas says, close enough that she can feel his breath against her slick-soaked cunt, and Dean presses a kiss to the back of her shoulder just before Castiel curls his tongue inside her and she clenches her jaw around a shout.

“Good?” Dean murmurs in her ear, and she nods, shaking; Castiel drags his tongue roughly over her clit and she jerks back, fists clenching and going slack as he presses a kiss to the crease of her thigh, nudges his tongue back against the folds of her pussy and she sobs with the pleasure of it, hands skimming – Dean’s bare knee, Castiel’s arms, the ridges of his spine and shoulderblades –

Dean catches her wrist, tugging it back. “Don’t.”

“It’s fine,” Cas murmurs, lips brushing against her until she shudders. Dean swallows hard enough for her to hear and lets her wrist go, slides his hand up the back of her arm until he can cup her breast, soft and careful. She arches her back and fights off moans, Cas’s tongue and fingers curling everywhere until she recoils against Dean, choking, shuddering and clamping down, digging crescent moons into the places on Castiel’s back without the slightest hint of wings.

(Cas comes across her palms and across Dean’s stomach, later, once she’s got her breath back. Later still, she wakes in the dim gray of dawn to find Cas’s mouth against the skin over her heart and Dean hiding himself in her hair. Her jeans are soaked in spray on the other side of the ashes and she has three cricks in her neck and two in her back and she’s going to smell like sex for days, until she gets another chance to shower.

For the first time since the end of the world she smiles by accident.)

 

In Camp Chitaqua, Jo finds Castiel sunk down on a mossy log, head tilted back against the wall of a rain-beaten cabin, his eyes closed and his hair stuck to his skin. Inside the cabin, somebody is sobbing. It’s nobody they know. It’s probably a demon. Jo sits, and her shoulder brushes against Castiel’s. (He’s in torn-up flannel. She hasn’t seen his coat in a long, long time.)

He presses the back of his hand to her kneecap, unfolds his fingers around two matching powdery white pills. He still has not opened his eyes. Jo looks down, looks up at him, cups his hand between her own.

“It’s my fault,” he rasps. Jo closes her eyes.

“It’s everyone’s fault,” she says. “Alastair did it, Lucifer did it, Uriel did it, hell, _he_ did it…” She shakes her head, ducking against the urge to shudder, and Castiel presses closer against her. “Hell, I could try to stop him too.”

“You didn’t start it.” Cas’s hair is greasy on her neck, matted, maybe full of blood and vomit – it’s too dark for her to see, and he reeks but he often does. “You didn’t make him start.” She can feel the words buzz through him, buzz into her. “I know what he’s doing in there, Jo, I saw him doing it in Hell, I…”

“Shhhh,” she manages, lips brushing against his forehead. “Hey, shhh. Don’t.”

She pries the pills out of his fingers and she rubs her nose helplessly against the sticky edge of his hair, childish and useless. He rolls his head back, laughing a little – inaudible, just a vibration. “They’re painkillers, you know. This constitutes pain.”

“That’s not…” Jo opens her eyes, looks at the pills settled in her hands. “C’mon, Cas, there’s gotta be something else.”

“Eat your gun.” Cas cups her wrist, hand loose and limp. “If you’re impatient.”

Jo snorts, tucking her chin against his shoulder. “Yeah, I think I’ll make them work for it, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It’s not,” he says, reaching a hand blindly up over his shoulder. His fingertips tap against her face until he finds her jawline. “You know, you’re very brave, Jo.”

“You shouldn’t mix medicines and absinthe,” she says, and pulls him closer, listens to Dean pull bursts of pain out of someone on the other side of the wall. Cas is heavy and warm against her, and before dawn cracks through the sky her flask is hanging empty from his hand. He barely took a couple mouthfuls, anyway. (It was full when she sat down.)

 

Cas sinks his fingers into Dean’s bare shoulders, one thumb brushing against his throat, and drags him down onto the bed; Jo pins him against Cas with every last scrap of weight in her, and when Cas jerks Dean’s head back for a crooked kiss, Jo goes for the jawline, clinging to Dean like a terrier. She keeps one hand or her mouth gripped on him even while she helps scrape Cas’s jeans off his hips, even while she fumbles at Dean’s fly, her hips grinding her palm against him. He sobs, laid open underneath with Cas’s fingers still bound into his hair, tufts tearing away.

“Don’t stop,” Dean pleads with them, as Cas pushes inside him, as Jo slides him inside her; “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” a thick stumbling sob with his eyes crunched shut; “Don’t stop.”

Corpse-ridden smoke floats past their nostrils. Jo wonders vaguely if some strange _other_ disease – AIDs or something – is ripping through the camp courtesy Dean and Cas and her; she wonders if she’ll be missing a period and talking to Risa and riskily bleeding a might-have-been into a crowded semipublic latrine. She fucks down in perfect time with Castiel’s gasps anyway, locking her arms so Dean can’t rise without a fight, can’t head for duty. She doesn’t think about the lighter that’s probably fallen out of her pocket onto the floor, the one someone probably wanted half an hour gone.

Cas moans against Dean, and Dean groans like a dying man – Jo knows – and comes inside her in a sudden burst that pulls Jo over the edge, because Castiel is mouthing at the back of Dean’s neck and she rocked down as Castiel rocked up, because she’s crushing her breasts against his chest and knows which scars are old and which are new.

“Love you,” Dean rasps afterwards, so far gone that Jo’s surprised he remembers words are made of sounds. He’s still tangled up in Cas, Jo’s still tangled up in both of them (but mostly Dean, Dean’s arms and her hair and their feet twined all together.) He’s talking to the ceiling, not looking at either of them, and from the way he grunts Jo guesses she and Cas tighten their grip at the same time. 

 

Jo leans against the wreck of a table and stares at the thick-torn hole in her thigh. Her ears are ringing.

“Jo,” Dean says from somewhere very far away, clutching at her shoulder. “Listen, are you _sure –”_

“’Fraid so.” She swallows hard. “Probably got an extra pint of blood in me.” Her voice sounds faintly tinny. Dean stares at her, nausea scrawled across his face and the minute shake of his head.

“I –” His voice cracks. “I can give you four hours, at least. It’s pushing it, but…” She can see him gulp; she pulls herself a little straighter.

“Why draw it out?” she asks, covers his hand with her own. Castiel straightens from his crouch near the table’s edge, resettles close enough to squeeze Dean’s shoulder helplessly and close his eyes. “Look, I – you don’t have to, I’ve got this. It’s all right.”

“No,” Castiel says, rough, and tips his weight forwards until he’s kneeling beside her. “I can. If… if you want.”

She holds his gaze, forces herself to smile. “Thanks, Cas.” She looks to Dean. “Hey, don’t worry about it. Had to happen sooner or later.”

“Yeah.” It’s barely recognizable as a word; he blinks and blinks again, fails at all to hide the tears collecting at the corner of his eyes, and she slides her hand around the back of his neck and reaches up to kiss him goodbye, gentle as she can. His mouth is clumsier against hers than she can remember, his lips trembling, his hands knotting in her shirt. “Hey.” She licks her lips, tries to remember how to speak, as he rests his forehead against hers. “See you soon, big guy. Hang in there.”

“Yeah.” He pulls back, covers his eyes with his hand. She turns to Cas.

“You got a gun?”

“Yes.” He shifts, cradles her head gently and rests the muzzle to the side of her head. The tip is cool. “Jo…”

She already feels like she can’t breathe. She tilts her head back, blinks until her vision clears. “What, I don’t get a kiss from you?”

His mouth closes against hers, careful and somehow formal, like it’s some kind of ceremony angels and former angels have. She kisses him back, fingers in his hair; she can’t see anything but swimming salt by now.

“I’ll take care of him,” Cas promises, husky, lips brushing still against hers. She nods, letting him go.

“Thanks.”

Cas kisses her one more time, and then finally the world goes black.

**_fin._ **


End file.
